


No Smoke Without Flame

by daasgrrl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Consensual, M/M, Romance, Sibling Incest, Slash, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 07:32:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2539553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Mycroft held his cigarette poised between the fingers of one gloved hand, and Sherlock shivered at the thought of soft black leather against his skin. He turned his head away. Exhaled. They smoked for a while in silence, as the rain teemed and pooled around them.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Smoke Without Flame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [buckybearstare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckybearstare/gifts).



> Written for the lovely [cinderlily33](http://cinderlily33.tumblr.com/) who "won" me in the charity auction for Mark Gatiss' birthday to benefit the [London Lesbian & Gay Switchboard](http://www.llgs.org.uk/). Thanks so much, sweetie! I originally offered a 221b, because I'm not confident of my ability to write to order, but I got carried away. She wanted something based on this [amazing pic](http://cinderlily33.tumblr.com/post/98491220940/archiaart-you-look-like-you-need-it) she'd commissioned, and added, _"Something tender and romantic and sexy between the two of them would be absolutely lovely. And Top!Mycroft Holmescest is my everything."_ That's quite a challenge, if you're me. But I tried *g*
> 
> Many thanks to [evila_elf](http://evila_elf.livejournal.com/) for beta.

Rain spattered down on London, over rooftops, rubbish bins, and a decomposing corpse in an alleyway. Although that particular corpse had probably been zipped into a body bag by now, given that Sherlock had just done all Lestrade’s work for him. Now he was headed back to Baker Street, watching the city fragment through the cab’s water-flecked windows. Another tedious afternoon.

As the cab rounded the corner, he frowned at the sight of Mycroft standing beneath the next-door awning, waiting. When Sherlock emerged, Mycroft was immediately beside him, holding his umbrella over them both. Sherlock shut the door and glared at him as the cab pulled away.

“Why are you here?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Why do you think?”

“I didn’t ask you to visit, you know.”

“You never do.”

“ _And_ you’ve been smoking.” Sherlock sniffed the air. “Dunhill Reds – very nice. Well, you could at least let me have one. Given the _occasion_.” He tilted his chin, waiting.

Mycroft considered, then passed him a lighter and two cigarettes from his inside breast pocket. Sherlock placed a cigarette between Mycroft’s lips, lit it, and then let Mycroft help him with his own. The flame flickered uncertainly between Sherlock’s cupped hands, then flared into life. Smoke curled through the air, drifting, and Sherlock sighed at the sweet, giddy rush of nicotine through his bloodstream. He was aware that Mycroft was watching him. Always, always watching him. Mycroft held his cigarette poised between the fingers of one gloved hand, and Sherlock shivered at the thought of soft black leather against his skin. He turned his head away. Exhaled. They smoked for a while in silence, as the rain teemed and pooled around them.

“Aren’t you going to invite me inside?” Mycroft asked, when they were done.

“No,” Sherlock said. “But I expect you’ll follow me anyway.”

Mycroft did, along the narrow hallway and then up the stairs, but stopped short just inside the door to the flat.

“What on earth happened here?”

Sherlock had already taken off his coat and scarf, throwing them onto a chair. He cast a glance around the room, which looked just as he’d left it that morning. “What do you mean? Nothing’s happened. If you mean the shin bones on the table, I’m throwing them out tomorrow.”

“That’s… not what I meant, although I’m glad to hear it. But it looks even worse than the last time I was here. Shouldn’t that Hudson woman be doing something about it?”

“No, she made it quite plain when I took the flat that she was _not my housekeeper_.”

“Then maybe you should look into hiring one. You’ll never find a flatmate with the place in this state.”

“Which is perfect, because I don’t _want_ a flatmate. I’ve told you so already.” Sherlock stalked into the kitchen and stuck the kettle under the tap.

Mycroft propped his umbrella against the wall before joining him. “It’s not good for you to be on your own.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have thrown me out in the first place.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft was wearing the look Sherlock hated most, the obdurate one that suggested he had retreated into the cold, high tower of Logic and Practicality, and slammed the door shut behind him. “You know it had to be done…”

“Yes, I know.” Apparently there were many things Mycroft couldn’t afford in his increasingly elevated line of work, and one of them was scrutiny. Bad enough that he’d already acquired the status of ‘confirmed bachelor’ amongst those who noted such things. The last thing he needed was for people to wonder why he insisted on keeping his difficult-but-now-perfectly-functional younger brother under the same roof. “I _understand_ perfectly. What I’m saying is I don’t _care_.”

“But I do,” Mycroft said, and suddenly they were no longer talking about the same thing at all. He came a step closer, and the heat of his body sent a corresponding warmth through Sherlock’s. Then his black leather gloves were cupping Sherlock’s face between them, and Mycroft’s mouth was pressed against his own, tasting of smoke and memories. The old desires sparked in Sherlock’s gut, quickly rekindling into flame. The kettle bubbled furiously, and then turned itself off.

He could have quite happily gone on kissing Mycroft, right there in the living room, but he was all too aware of the facing windows, distant though they might be. “Aren’t you worried someone might see?” The mocking tone he’d intended sounded dangerously sincere.

“Then perhaps we’d best skip the tea.”

In Sherlock’s bedroom, the curtains were shut tight, mainly since he hadn’t bothered opening them that morning. He turned on the overhead light to make up for it, casting the room in a cool, pale glow. At least it was moderately tidy; Sherlock barely used the space for anything but sleep, a practice he knew met with Mycroft’s approval in more ways than one. As soon as Mycroft’s gloves and overcoat were off, Sherlock was in his arms, pressed up close against him. He rested his cheek against Mycroft’s shoulder, and breathed him in deep. In turn, Mycroft’s hands wrapped around the back of his shirt, his nose buried in Sherlock’s hair. Outside, the rain fell in a steady, insistent drumming.

Sherlock tilted his chin up as Mycroft began to kiss him, over and over, their breaths mingling in a haze of warmth and desire. It had been like this from the beginning, this sense of immutable _rightness_ , even when Sherlock had been clumsy and furious, and Mycroft near-paralysed with guilt. It wasn’t something that could be reasoned with or rationalised away, so Sherlock had long given up trying. It had taken Mycroft considerably more time.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice was low and breathy against his ear, its sound engraven in every part of him. “I’ve missed you so.”

“Shhh. Don’t spoil it.” Sherlock moved his hand to the front of Mycroft’s trousers, fingers stroking lightly, then with increasing pressure. Mycroft’s breath hissed out between his teeth.

Mycroft hadn’t once mentioned his work, or his pressing appointments, which meant that there was enough time, today, to take it slowly. They sat side by side on the edge of the bed, thighs touching, to take off their shoes and socks. Mycroft stripped down to his shirtsleeves, in between kisses, and then let Sherlock work off his cufflinks. Sherlock held Mycroft’s hand against the side of his face, rubbing his cheek against the pulse point at Mycroft’s wrist. It felt strange, this spontaneous tryst in the middle of the day. He might have been 18 and home for the holidays, stealing an hour with Mycroft while their parents were out.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said again, and the look in his eyes was all Sherlock had ever needed.

“Come here.” Sherlock motioned Mycroft to stand, then drew him between his legs. He nuzzled at Mycroft’s crotch, enjoying the heat and the swell of him through the fabric, the physical evidence of his desire. He unfastened Mycroft’s trousers and took him into his mouth, breathing in the musk of him, tasting the salt-sharp of him on his tongue.

Mycroft groaned, and his hands moved, shaking, to undo the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, as far as he could reach. Sherlock undid them the rest of the way, then pulled his shirt off without breaking contact. He palmed himself once through his trousers, before focusing enough to unbutton them as well. But before he could wrap his hand around his cock, Mycroft pulled away from him.

“Don’t,” Mycroft said. “Let me. Please.”

Sherlock stood up to deal with the rest of his clothing, then watched as Mycroft stripped down as well, seeming to flush even redder under Sherlock’s unabashed gaze. Then Mycroft was pushing him onto the bed, kissing him, Mycroft’s tongue pushing deep into his mouth. To Sherlock, this was the reality of Mycroft; not the cold intellectual figure he traded barbs with in the public eye, but the skin and the hair and the heat of him. He sank his teeth lightly into Mycroft’s shoulder as Mycroft’s hand wrapped around them both, stroking them together.

After a brief scrabble for lube, Sherlock propped a pillow beneath himself and spread his legs wider as Mycroft’s fingers invaded him, gentle, relentless. He pushed back shamelessly against them, alive to every flicker in Mycroft’s concentration. His back arched as Mycroft’s mouth came down around his cock, slick and wet.

“Ah, oh god,” he breathed. His voice dissolved into muted whimpers as Mycroft lapped and sucked without mercy.

Then Mycroft was on top of him, inside him, and then there was nothing in the world but the two of them, entangled in each other’s arms. Mycroft’s solid weight pressed down upon him, claimed him as his own. Sherlock tilted his head back and moaned as Mycroft nuzzled at his neck and jawline, keeping up his slow, steady rhythm. His breath still tasted of smoke. They were quiet together, out of habit, but every whisper was an endearment, every touch a caress. After all these years, Mycroft knew how best to torment and tease, knew all the right angles and pressures to make Sherlock squirm and cry out helplessly beneath him. The brush of a thumbnail across Sherlock’s nipple; the scrape of Mycroft’s teeth against his jaw. It should all have felt familiar, boring. Yet these times were still rare enough to be precious, for both of them.

After a time, Mycroft stilled his movements, letting Sherlock curl his hand around his cock at last. Pleasure shivered through his body, even sweeter than the high of nicotine. Elsewhere Sherlock might have found stimulation in drugs, and cigarettes, and the thrill of puzzles and solutions, but only Mycroft could give him this – heart and mind, body and soul. He stroked himself slowly, then faster, panting, wanting to watch Mycroft watching him for as long as he could. He shut his eyes tight and fell.

“I love you,” Mycroft said, when Sherlock no longer had the breath to mock him. Then he was thrusting harder, faster, into Sherlock, kissing him desperately. At the last moment he pulled away, stifling his cries, his forehead pressed hard against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock held him close as he came, felt the trembling of Mycroft’s body echo through every fibre of his own.

By now the sounds of rain had faded into the background hum of traffic, the noises of a city going dully about its business without them. They shared another of Mycroft’s cigarettes, using the ashtray Sherlock kept beside his bed, a stainless-steel cube given to him by a grateful client. Steep steps bounded its edges, ascending and descending forever.

“We really should stop,” Mycroft said, exhaling.

“What do you mean?” It was a sentiment Sherlock had heard once too many times before. He tensed, instinctively preparing himself for battle. “Is that what you came here to tell me?”

Mycroft hushed him with a kiss. “No, no, Sherlock. The smoking. It’s not good for you. For either of us.”

“Oh, _that_. I don’t care.” Sherlock reached for the cigarette and took a deep drag, as though to prove it.

“But I do. And surely since all the legislation came in it must be interfering with your work.”

Sherlock blew out a breath and shrugged. “I manage.”

“For me, then.”

“Why is this suddenly so important to you?”

“Because of your health. Because lately I see less of you than ever. Because it’ll make it easier for you to find a flatmate.”

“I told you…”

“All right, I know. But Sherlock, please – consider it. Cutting down, at least. Or I’ll just have to manage on my own.”

“And what’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

Mycroft’s silence was an answer in itself. As Sherlock mutinously stubbed the remains of the cigarette into the ashtray, Mycroft reached for his hand, clasping it tight. Then he leaned in to kiss Sherlock, deep and lingering, an act of shameless manipulation no less effective for its transparency.

“Oh, all right. I’ll _think_ about it.”

“Thank you. So, how was your case this morning?”

“Boring. It wasn’t even a proper murder. Just a cover up.” He outlined the details with a defiant pride – the slippery shoes, the next-door neighbour, the parakeet.

“Oh, well done. But did you think to check the recycling bin before disturbing the poor creature’s rest?”

“Of course I did. Obvious. Nothing there.” Actually, he hadn’t. But he’d worked it out in the end, and that was what mattered. He made a face at Mycroft’s amusement. “Why are you still here, anyway? Don’t you have some vitally important business to attend to?”

“I believe I just did,” Mycroft said. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “But yes, regretfully, duty calls. Have dinner with me tonight? _Le Millefeille_ , I think. Eight-thirty.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Always.”

Mycroft slipped off the bed and gathered his things, disappearing through the door. Sherlock stretched out and listened as Mycroft started the shower, briefly imagining the play of water sluicing over his body. Another day, and he might have been tempted to join him. But today he simply wanted to contemplate the walls, soothed by the knowledge of Mycroft’s presence in the next room, the sounds of water splashing against tile.

When Mycroft returned, he looked almost his usual self again, although his hair was damp. He retrieved his overcoat from the hanger, armouring himself once more against the world. Sherlock was still naked. He flipped over and propped himself up on one elbow as Mycroft sat down on the edge of the bed and put on his shoes and socks. Straightening up, Mycroft ran an absent-minded hand over Sherlock’s thigh, and Sherlock saw him glance at the ashtray. It still held only the remains of the single cigarette they’d smoked together earlier.

“How very restrained of you,” Mycroft said. “Considering.”

“Wasn’t in the mood.”

“I see.” Mycroft smiled at him, pulling on his gloves, and Sherlock felt the reflexive, treacherous glow.

“It’s nothing to do with you.”

“I wouldn’t dare to suggest otherwise. I’ll pick you up at eight-fifteen, all right?”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll meet you there,” Sherlock said, mustering his dignity.

Mycroft’s eyebrow lifted. “All right, then. Don’t be late. And if you’ll permit me one last tawdry display of sentiment?”

“If you must,” Sherlock muttered, before the heat of Mycroft’s mouth and the brush of soft leather against his cheek left him breathless.

“Happy birthday, brother mine.”


End file.
